June 17th, 2016

​The Weight of an Anvil
By Daniel Padilla
 
He stood in front of the door. He knew something was wrong. He knew they needed to talk. He had called a few times to ask to meet, but had gotten no response. So he took matters into his own hands. Or attempted to, anyway. He had been standing in front of the door for what seemed like an eternity. He checked his watch and the needles indicated it was somewhere close to 3:31. He realized he had only been there for three minutes. But he had managed to contemplate so many things in those three minutes. He had fit and compressed so much into those three minutes. All the time, all the experiences, all the regrets. Which is why he was having such an excruciatingly difficult time raising his right hand to knock on the door. He felt the weight of an anvil that he could not see restraining his hands. And so he stood there. Thinking. Pondering. Regretting. But most of all remembering. Remembering, and remembering, and remembering.
 
He walked away. The weight of the anvil that he could not see did not go away, even as he left the door farther and farther behind him. He was not satisfied. He knew something was wrong. He knew they needed to talk. He had called a few times to ask to meet, but had gotten no response. It was for the better that he did not take matters into his own hands. It was for the better that he could not raise his hand to knock on the door. Had he seen what was happening behind it, he would have been more lost than ever.
 
Those behind the door would not have answered, anyway.

Image by Nico Hsu / iPad Pro